If You Can't Take the Heat
by Diane Langley
Summary: ... stay out of the kitchen. Ginny Weasley has been working at the O'Flaherty long enough. It's time to make a change in her life, even if that change means figuring out how to cook for Draco Malfoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Cook and Nanny Required**

For reasonable pay, in addition to room and board.

Inquiry letters may be sent to 1800 Dutch Street

Qualified and professional applicants only

The ad appeared in typed calligraphy on heavy-quality card stock, even though it contained few enough words to only be the size of a business card. Seamus Finnegan turned it over in his hands to check for writing on the back but saw none, so he pinned it on the corkboard in the kitchen and continued sorting through his mail as he walked. The O'Flaherty, his café that was really more of a diner, had a small staff in a small building, but it was finally starting to turn a profit rather than just break even and he was really pleased. His small staff (an assistant cook, two waitresses, and Ginevra Weasley, a sort of cook and manager combo) was in-house nearly as often as he was. Their work was what kept this place running as much as his.

The fourth staff member and his right-hand (wo)man was currently frowning over a giant pot of broccoli cheddar soup, holding a pinch of diced onions above it threateningly. She had red hair pulled back in a too-tight bun under a floppy white hat, and her apron was stained with so many different substances that it was probably a health violation in and of itself.

"Having trouble with the soup, Ginny?" Seamus asked, and she looked up in surprise.

"Oh, just wondering if it would benefit from a little more kick," Ginny replied, cracking a wry smile.

"You look like you were soup-whispering again," he answered skeptically, and she shook her head.

"No, it's all set. I'm glad you're letting me do this soup special today so I can take an afternoon off. I have some things I just have to take care of," she attempted to distract him from the fact that she had indeed been threatening her broccoli cheddar soup with the onions. Sometimes giving food a little talking to set it straight; she couldn't explain it. She just knew it was true.

Seamus' expression softened suddenly, corners of his mouth drooping. "Of course. You can take as much time off as you need. I understand completely." She looked away, unable to face the open pity and sympathy glowing in his expression

"Thank you," she murmured. Ginny continued bopping about the kitchen, finishing up last minute tasks so that she could take a much-needed and very rare afternoon off. She had something very important to do, even if it wasn't nearly as pleasant as working in this dear kitchen, clean, cozy, and just shabby enough to feel like home. As she offered her assistant, Marjorie, some last minute instructions on how best to serve the various soups she had made, she thought about how she had ended up here.

After seven years at Hogwarts and nothing but a world of magic, she had originally found herself more interested in the homemaking activities her mother had always done than in any "careers." Getting married to be a homemaker was not the way of the modern world, though, so she had sought a way to use those skills viably. A little culinary school and in-home practice later, Ginny Weasley had landed this job, first-time cook with first-time business owner, Seamus. They had been a good pair for the past six years, and she had grown as a cook enough that she sometimes dreamed of being called a "chef."

Of course, putting in all of those twelve hour days alongside Seamus for a business that was not actually hers had been hard, hard on her psyche and hard on her social life. It had been starting to wear her to the core for some time, but… then family tragedy had struck and the hours poured into The O'Flaherty felt completely wasted, even though she knew they weren't.

Grabbing her jacket off its hook, she called towards the front to Seamus. "I'm leaving, buddy. Hold down the fort without me?"

"I always do," A pause followed, "Actually, I never do because you're always here. Go! I'll see you tomorrow."

She chuckled, pushed her arms into the coat sleeves and headed towards the door. As she passed the cork board, she noted a small, fancy business card. Plucking it off, she read it. Something in her stomach tightened with inexplicable anticipation, and rather than put it back, she pocketed it. Disloyalty felt like a weight around her neck. After six years with Seamus, she knew she couldn't just leave on him. He needed her. She pushed through the door out into the cool autumn air.

The O'Flaherty was in a good neighborhood, charming and casual, where its mid-level dinner and inexpensive lunch fit right in, and it had started to feel more like home than her apartment at this point. The local Floo Network was only two blocks away, and she walked briskly, trying very hard not to let her mind wander. It needed to be centered for what she was about to do.

A completely understandable desire to Floo to her own little apartment and cook something comforting, perhaps a nice rice pilaf dish with grilled portobello mushrooms and way too much butter in the recipe, overcame her. She pushed it aside, though, and kept marching through the familiar routine of Flooing to Ron and Hermione's house. Their fireplace was wide but short, and she stepped out cautiously, taking care not to hit her head.

The living room looked tidy, everything in its place, but not even a closer look was required to see the thick layer of dust over everything. Even over Hermione's books on the coffee table, old favorites obviously untouched for some time. Sadness rose up from her toes all the way up to her mouth where it left a foul salty taste; she tried to focus on that instead of on the pain twisting like a screw in her heart.

Hermione rounded the corner from the stairs and offered a wan smile. "Hi Ginny. Thank you so much for coming," she said without any light in her eyes.

"Of course," Ginny managed weakly.

"Do you want anything to eat before we get started?"

"No, I'm good."

A moment of silence stretched out between them before they started walking up the stairs, still mute, and stopped at a closed pink door.

"I haven't been in here since…" Hermione murmured, putting her hand on Ginny's arm. Her fingers clutched strangely, and Ginny knew her sister-in-law was clinging to her for support in more ways than one.

"We can do it, Hermione. We can do it," she replied. Before she could make herself grab the door knob, she sucked in a deep breath and coughed a little. There was a lot of dust everywhere, it seemed. But then she did it; she twisted the knob and pushed the door open. It was the same beautiful room she had helped paint when they first found out that Hermione was expecting a baby girl, all soft pink with pastel yellow and lavender accents. There were dolls scattered on the floor, a tiny three-block tower standing near the toy bin, and a stuffed puppy with ears worn out lying beside the bed. It was the room just the way Cora left it.

Ginny heard a stifled sob behind her as she walked into the room and waved her wand to summon a cardboard box from downstairs.

"We can't pack up Cora's things. Ginny, we can't do it!" Hermione, the calm woman who had asked her to come help, hit a note of shrill panic.

Ginny shook her head. "We have to. It's time."

Cora Anne Weasley was the only child of Ron and Hermione, only grandchild of Molly and Arthur, and only niece (or nephew) of Ginny, George, Fred, Percy, Bill, and Charlie. And now she was dead.

Four-years-old and the darling of the Weasley clan, everyone's little angel, Cora had held every heartstring in her hands, and when she contracted the flu, everyone doted on her even more, though they never could have suspected it would develop into pneumonia, or that the pneumonia would kill her. It had been six months now, but Ginny still could not walk into this house without wanting to run out crying. And obviously Hermione had not found the strength to clean yet, or even to read. Ginny thought of her brother, brokenly weeping beside the bed in St. Mungo's, refusing to let them take away his little girl's body, and she almost couldn't make herself touch a doll to drop it into a box and pack it away.

"We can't let it turn into a shrine, Hermione. Then we'll never be able to let her go," Ginny whispered, kneeling down and placing the first little blonde doll into the box. She glanced over her shoulder to see Hermione kneel down beside her and do the same, tears streaming down her face. They worked quickly, silently, and Ginny thought about when Cora was in the hospital. She had only gone to see her twice in that whole week. It had been a busy at The O'Flaherty that week, and she had been putting in so many extra hours with Seamus, never dreaming that Cora would… those were hours with her beautiful little niece that she could never get back, precious moments she had passed up.

Cora had loved her aunt's grilled cheese sandwiches more than anything else in the world; Ginny knew she made a good grilled cheese sandwich, using the right amount of butter (never cooking spray) to coat the pan and never burning it, and that she always had good, expensive cheese to sprinkle in with the basic stuff, but Cora had seemed to think the sandwiches were more magical than magic itself. _What I wouldn't give to make her another grilled cheese sandwich_… She thought as she taped the last cardboard box shut and looked around the empty room.

"Ron's not going to like that we did this."

Ginny glanced over at Hermione as the woman spoke solemnly. Then she nodded. "He's going to hate it, but it had to be done. Just like…" She trailed off, knowing they were both remembering his original staunch refusal to hold a funeral or talk about his daughter in the past tense.

"He called me 'Cora's mother' the other day, when he was talking to Harry," Hermione murmured, tears welling up in her eyes again. "Not Hermione, not his wife, nothing except Cora's mother. Like I was a stranger to him except for my relationship to his daughter. It's like I've lost them both."

Ginny looked away from her sister-in-law, suddenly incapable of facing that kind of raw pain. She put her hands up to her face, pressing her fingers against her eyelids until red lights flared against her non-vision.

"I'm sorry she's gone. I'm so sorry," she finally whispered, hearing from her voice that she was crying but unable to feel it.

"God's will," Hermione dully echoed.

"So they say."

X

By the time she had left Ron and Hermione's, Ginny had gone through every range of negative emotion possible, the worst being a strange mixture of anger, pain, and shame when her brother had looked at her (after seeing Cora's toys packed away) and said, "Certainly it doesn't matter to you to put them away. You gave more of a fuck about Seamus's restaurant than your own niece. You wouldn't leave it even to be there for her when she was _dying_. You weren't family to Cora when she needed you, and you aren't family to me now." Nothing else could be said after a speech like that. She had given Hermione a hug ("He doesn't mean it, Ginny. He's just so sad. He's not himself," her sister-in-law had tried to comfort) and headed home without another word.

Now, alone in her flat, wearing old sweatpants and a stained apron, she stood at the stove and stirred the spaghetti sauce she was making. She had no need for more homemade spaghetti sauce. She would just jar it and put it away with the six other jars she had made recently. But it was an easy thing to make when she needed the comfort of cooking without eating it and ballooning up to obesity. She was already much softer around the edges than she had been just a few years ago.

Ron's words had hurt but worse than that, they had spoken to some truth she had been trying to bury away. She had given Seamus and his restaurant her entire life. She had missed family events, fallen out of touch with many friends, seen far too many promising relationships fail, and finally, she had not been there for her beautiful niece in her final week of life. That was the unforgivable breaking point. She had to leave The O'Flaherty. She would tell Seamus tomorrow, even though she did not have another job lined up yet.

The thought of leaving the sweet little restaurant she had come to love gave her a tiny tremor of discomfort through her brain, but the tremor was accompanied by no remorse. She was afraid to try something new after having been comfortably settled for so long, but she realized with surprise that she would not miss Seamus or the restaurant. The ball of resentment at their consumption of her life had grown large enough to eclipse much of her affection towards them.

Once her sauce was taken from the burner and left to cool, she moved over to pull out a piece of parchment and a quill.

"Seamus," she began aloud, "I have to leave The O'Flaherty and try something new…"

_I have to find something that fills the gaping hole inside of me._

She tried to think of other words, but nothing would come. Writing this letter was going to be a long process.

X

"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy. What inspired you to leave behind the family tradition and become a chef?" A beaming, plastic-surgery and magical makeup-enhanced Rita Skeeter purred from her perch at the edge of her seat. Draco Malfoy tried swallowing down his disgust for this whole charade and bit back the desire to answer sarcastically, especially tempting since the story of how he became a chef was common knowledge at this point. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised to find out that there was already a book telling his story.

"I spent an inordinate amount of time in the Manor's kitchen during my teenage years due to that pesky Hollow Leg Syndrome that teenage males tend to suffer from. House elves are lousy cooks, and sometimes our family cook would be off for the evening. On those evenings, I would experiment in the kitchen myself. I was lucky enough to come from such a wealthy family that I had a multitude of ingredients to test out. The rest, as they say, is history," he answered diplomatically, reaching forward to take a sip of his drink. Rita beamed at his answer, and he forced himself not to frown at her beaming.

He loved being in the kitchen, creating something from individual ingredients that no one else knew how to create. All of his recipes were secret and kept only in his head, no notes jotted down anywhere. His natural aptitude for cooking accompanied by his famous last name had made it a cinch for him to rise up the ladder to a prominent position as a chef, but once he had started developing his own recipes, whatever restaurant he was "gifting" with his presence was the place to be for all of the wizard world's most rich and famous. Being the chef to celebrities had bolstered his own fame, so that now he was one of the most popular among them. Now everyday people would blow an entire paycheck for a chance to eat one of his signature dishes on a fancy night out.

And he felt no guilt for that because he made them the best dinner he knew how, and he had yet to have an unsatisfied patron at a restaurant where he was manning the kitchen. He took great pride in his work.

"Sources say," Rita began with such relish that Draco knew this was going to be bad, "that your father has never tried your cooking because he is so appalled that you passed over a Ministry job to pursue a 'banal hobby.'"

He knew exactly what source had said that: Lucius Malfoy himself. "You'll know better than I do what my father says if he's not speaking to me," he replied, another cautious and appropriately diplomatic answer. Rita seemed displeased with the joke, and Draco felt damn displeased himself with her inability to be polite even after he had been gracious enough to give her an interview.

By the time it was over, Draco just wanted to go home, but instead, he had to go meet with his manager, publicist, and closest friend, Martin. Martin ran everything about Draco's life except his kitchen and his personal time. Martin paid the bills, managed the money, hired help when necessary, and set up all of Draco's appearances and interviews. When Draco walked into the office on 1800 Dutch Street, he was, as usual, amazed by how spotless and organized Martin kept everything.

"Hello, sir, is everything to your liking?" Martin faked the pompous tone of fancy dining establishment's host as he looked up from a paper he was reading, cracking a crooked grin. He was the kind of man with freckles leftover from his youth and cockeyed good looks that weren't going to win any rewards but would gain plenty of friends.

"Perfectly fine," Draco replied, managing a smile but not a joke. He was too tired. "Except that Skeeter bitch was heinous."

"She always is. She only has one speed. Gossipy bitch."

"True. Any applicants for the cook and nanny position yet?"

"Several, but nothing that speaks to me. All of the cover letters lack warmth, which is pretty important in a nanny."

"Do they sound like sex-crazed women who have figured out the job will be in my home and are just trying to get in my pants?" Draco finally managed a joke, but it was only a half a joke because it was a real problem. Like any celebrity, he had to take precautions. His address was undisclosed and well-protected by charms, and any hired help he needed like this nanny/cook had to be hired solely by Martin because any job offer connected to the Malfoy name drew false applicants, often hopeful females seeking an in to his fortune and good looks.

"No. They just sound terribly dull. Plus they lack the training in health-conscious cooking that you want. Because God forbid, Evelyn should eat a dish containing butter," the publicist replied, cracking another smile.

"I want her to be as healthy as possible. There is no shame in that," he took the teasing easily. Evelyn was his daughter, five years old and in his opinion, perfect in every way. He loved her more than he had ever dreamed he could love a person. More than he loved his cold, disinterested mother or his conniving, dark father and certainly more than he had ever loved Pansy Parkinson, Evelyn's mother. When Pansy had shown up on his doorstep six years ago, claiming to be pregnant, he had politely reminded her that they had never had sex. Her sob story was one he was familiar with, a woman abandoned after an accidental pregnancy, but he had not been interested in taking on her problems until she revealed that her family would never support her if they knew who the real father was.

So, for the first time in his life, Draco had done something unselfish. He had let her tell her family that he was the father and agreed to keep up the charade as long as the Parkinsons kept it completely out of the public eye. How could he have ever known that dumb, selfish, cold-hearted Pansy would die in childbirth and leave him with an infant? And even more, how could he have ever known that dumb, selfish, cold-hearted Pansy and some random stranger could create the beautiful, perfect little girl he was lucky enough to call his own?

"Well, I'll keep looking at the applicants, but nothing is striking me as terribly promising yet," Martin's tone switched to pure seriousness. Draco recognized the switch and knew he was going to spend the next fifteen minutes looking at figures regarding his finances, figures that interested him little. Money interested him little, in fact, though that was likely because he had always had enough not to really worry about it.

He looked at the clock. This meeting was extending into his evening with Evelyn, who was currently under the care of a temporary nanny known as a house elf. He frowned.

"Can we talk about this later? Or you can just send me an owl? I want to get home to my little girl."

Growing up, Draco could never have imagined that he would have his priorities narrowed down to his little girl and a career he loved. Now he could not imagine them working out any other way.

X

Ginny looked away in discomfort. Seamus had gotten Irishly emotional over her letter of resignation, but now, he was downright embarrassing. She had just finished removing her personal supplies from the kitchen, and from her neatly pressed dress pants, modest blue sweater, and tidy bun, she suspected he knew that she was walking straight from here to a job interview. Seamus had resorted to begging her to stay now, begging with actual tears in his eyes, and she just couldn't face that.

"Seamus, please stop. You must understand why I'm leaving," she interrupted weakly.

"If this is about not being married or having kids of your own, you'll find someone, Ginny! You're still young, and I'm unmarried. Maybe we'll fall in love one of these days as long as you stay here at The O'Flaherty!"

"Seamus, this is embarrassing. I'm going to leave now." She edged towards the door, and he sucked it up and nodded. Apparently, the Irish may get overly emotional, but they were just as good at sucking it up once they knew the emotion wouldn't help them.

"Come by any time. Visit us." He said brusquely, looking away. She felt a little stab of sadness for him; he was going to be looking for another cook who would work as hard as she had, and he just wasn't going to be able to find one. No one else was going to be willing to sell themselves to a small café and make it the basis of his or her life.

She Apparated to 1800 Dutch Street, the address of her interview. Applying for a cook/nanny position in someone's home might seem like an odd choice for someone attempting to give a little less of life to a job, but she knew she would enjoy cooking privately, inside of a kitchen like her own, and the idea of nannying somehow felt like making up for lost time, lost time with her niece and lost time with the children she had been too busy to even think about finding a father for and having.

Pulling open the heavy wooden door to the building, she felt a little perspiration gather under her arms and right on her upper lip – how dreadfully embarrassing. It had been a long time since she had been on a job interview. The interior was clean and simple but clearly quality, from the shiny hardwood floors under her feet to the waiting chairs with soft striped upholstery. The desk where a secretary would normally sit was pushed back from the waiting area, and it was obviously the desk of someone with more power than a secretary, made of polished oak with wrought iron accents. There was a man sitting behind it, peering at a piece of paper through reading glasses.

Ginny hesitated, unsure whether to approach or sit down and wait. He looked up right in the middle of her awkward bobble.

"You must be Ms. Weasley. Please come sit down," the man said, a bemused twinkle in his eyes that sent Ginny flushing crimson. She tried to stroll confidently to the chair, but she was grateful by the time she sank into it because her knees felt wobbly from nerves. "I'm Martin Lewells, and I'm hiring on behalf of a client for the nannying position you applied for."

"It's nice to meet you, sir," Ginny managed, swallowing. Martin's voice was pleasant, his expression kind, and she felt herself relax.

"First, just tell me a bit about your experience with children," he began, holding a quill above her résumé. She launched right in, talking about how much she had loved spending time with her niece, Cora. At first, it was hard to talk through the hard, spiky lump in her throat, but it got easier as she talked. It had been a long time since she had just dwelt on the happy things about Cora. Martin seemed to notice the emotion in her voice but did not comment on it. He simply nodded.

"I can see from your résumé that you have worked as a cook at The O'Flaherty. Do you feel that creating specifically from a menu has prepared you to cook in a personal residence and vary your dishes?"

She cocked an eyebrow, surprised by this question. Normally, a person would consider restaurant work as over-qualifying an applicant for in-home work, but obviously this man felt it was the opposite. Who on earth was she going to be cooking for if she got this position?

"Well, I'm not just a cook as my career. Cooking is what I love to do; it's my hobby, so to speak. I love to play with recipes and create my own. In particular, I like to make my own sauces. Homemade sauce or marinade changes everything about a dish. It can really bring it to life," she answered honestly.

He smiled, seemingly approving, and moved on to a few more questions. These questions were of the generic job interview brand, and she managed them as skillfully as possible for someone rusty on interviewing etiquette. When he finished, he put his quill down and looked at her seriously.

"Miss Weasley, do you feel prepared to give this job one hundred percent if you are hired?" He paused thoughtfully. "Let me rephrase that. Do you feel prepared to give the little girl in your care one hundred percent?"

When it was worded like that, there was no way she could say no. Not if she thought of Cora.

He nodded at her answer. "Then you're hired, Miss Weasley. Be prepared to start Monday." He slid her a packet of information. Through her shock at being suddenly handed the job, she was surprised she could even manage to read the name of her employer on the top of the packet.

But she did read it. It said Draco Malfoy.

Her stomach tightened again in that inexplicable anticipation. "Are you kidding me?"

"No. You're going to be cooking for the wizard world's most famous chef," Martin chuckled, "I'd brush up on that homemade sauce making if I were you."

If Ginny had truly wanted a new adventure, she was getting it now.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Welcome to my newest Draco/Ginny adventure. It's a little unconventional, and I'm still getting used to the feel of it, but I feel hopeful about writing it and developing it. I'm definitely feeling some enthusiasm. Reviews are going to be key to helping me understand how you feel about this story, where you want to see it going, and what you like and dislike. So please review if you read. It's just courtesy.


	2. Chapter 2

Headlines these days were always spouting off new hysteria about bad news in Russia, about some rebellion and the people coming and going from power, and Draco rarely felt like wasting the time reading them. It had been months of this, to no real end. He took a sip of his coffee, put his wand to his paper to shrink it, and tucked it into his pocket. Much more important than any headlines about distant conflicts was his recent discussion with Martin; the new nanny had been hired, and her name was Ginny Weasley. He remembered the littlest redheaded Weasley fairly well – though mostly his school-year grudges had been with her brother – but he did not recall hearing a single thing about her after leaving Hogwarts. While he liked to think he trusted Martin's judgment completely, he felt skepticism about letting a Weasley into his home.

It was not that he bought into his father's old doctrine about muggle-lovers. Draco really could not care less about muggles; they were inconsequential to him. Some people might want to crusade for their rights or study them, but he felt quite comfortable ignoring them. Their worlds did not really have to intersect, after all. But it was hard to shake an entirety of upbringing, and he was quite certain he was never going to be able to see the Weasley clan as one composed of quality people. Still, the girl had already signed her contract with Martin, so he would have to hope she was as qualified and "homey" as Martin seemed to think.

"Daddy!"

The best voice in the world interrupted his thoughts, reverberating with the shrill excitement of a five-year-old who realized her daddy was spending the day at home instead of going to work. Evelyn launched herself down the stairs and into the kitchen, flinging herself into his lap. He smiled at her, kissing the top of her honey-brown curls.

"Daddy! You're going to be home all day?" Her delighted smile switched to a look of skepticism that was adorable on such angelic, childish features.

"Yes, dear, all day and all night and all weekend. Three whole days."

"Yay! Can we go fishing in the pond and then cook together and read stories?"

"Hmmm…" He feigned hesitation until her face fell. "Of course we can."

He was rewarded for his little joke with a big grin, one tooth missing, the very first one she had lost.

"But first," he continued in all seriousness. "We have to meet someone new today. Her name is Miss Weasley." Evelyn's face lit up.

"Is she going to be my new nanny?" She exclaimed, in a tone frightfully similar to a child saying 'Is she going to be my new mommy?' Evelyn had an obsession with the idea of mothers, for obvious and understandable reasons. Not only did she not have one in her life, but she also did not really have a grandmother – the Parkinsons had no interest in having a grandchild and his parents did not even speak to him – and she was not lucky enough to have friends with mothers. Actually, his poor little angel didn't really have friends; how could she when he was always trying to protect her from public scrutiny? She knew his household staff and the various nannies she had had and Martin, of course, but… He coughed once to clear his head. This moment was not the one for worrying about Evelyn's social development.

"She's going to be your new nanny, so we must try to make a good impression on her. Come on, let's get you out of her pajamas, and I'll put on something presentable," he said, preparing to usher the little girl up the stairs but not even having to. She was racing up before he even had a chance to stand up. Oh, to have her energy. He put his coffee cup in the sink and started up the stairs himself. Rounding the corner into Evelyn's room, he chuckled at the sight of the girl delving through her drawers.

"She's going to think you're amazing, no matter what you wear, angel." He said, sitting down on the pink, frilly bedspread. Evelyn ignored him graciously until she finally held up the fancy yellow dress she had worn to Blaise Zabini's wedding. It had white lace trim, pastel yellow satin, and crinoline under the skirt because it made her feel "like a princess," and it was way too nice for everyday wear.

"This is the dress Miss Weasley needs to meet me in," she announced.

"How are you going to go fishing with me in a dress like that?" He teased, and she gave him a look of pure condescension.

"Daddy, I can _change_ after I meet her," she replied with an eye roll worthy of a teenager. Draco chuckled and gently acquiesced, as he usually did. He helped her slip on the dress and brush her unruly curls before leaving her to straighten up her room ("I want it to look _perfect_ for Miss Weasley!") so he could go change. His master bedroom was a mess, and he was genuinely grateful that he was breaking in a new nanny today, not a maid. He and Evelyn had had popcorn and watched a charmed picture book about princesses last night, and somehow the bowl of popcorn had spilled everywhere. He had been too lazy to even swish a wand and clean it up – the charms for getting those ground-in kernels out of the carpet were harder than you'd think.

Going through his closet, he tried to decide what to wear. Unlike his daughter, he did not want to have to change before fishing, but at the same time, it hardly felt suitable to greet a new employee on her first day in ratty old jeans and a fishing tee shirt that were meant to only be worn on his well-protected property where no paparazzi cameras could catch a glimpse. He frowned, finally pulling on a nicer pair of dark-wash jeans and a blue pin-stripe button-down shirt over a ratty white tee shirt that he could fish in. He looked in the mirror, trying to determine if he looked authoritative enough, when a little voice piped up from behind him.

"She's going to think you're 'mazing, no matter what you wear, Daddy," Evelyn said solemnly. He managed not to laugh at the turnaround or at his daughter's misunderstanding; instead, he ushered her downstairs because the much-anticipated (at least by Evelyn) Miss Weasley would be here any second.

X

Ginny had barely agreed to the job and signed the contract when she realized that she had had no idea that the famed Draco Malfoy had a child. She had seen his face on the covers of magazine, usually posed with a perfunctory skillet or mixing bowl, and even on the labels of high-end kitchen spices in the store, smiling out at her as if she had the money to pay extra just because of a celebrity's face. But even so, she had never seen any evidence of a child in his life. He seemed to play the public role of a confirmed, beaming bachelor so well.

Her contract – which she had read over and over until its pages were crinkled – had outlined nothing about dress code, and she agonized over what to wear for this first day. Her luggage would be moved for her to a guest cottage on the premises where she would live, her duties would involve cooking "formal" dinner at least three nights a week and feeding "the Malfoy child[ren] as requested," as the contract had put it. It had outlined time off, protocol for requested days off, educational enrichment expectations for the child[ren] – it was only one child, she hoped, since she had never actually been a nanny before – and everything else under the sun but it had not mentioned one word about a dress code.

Now she hesitated as she prepared to Apparate to the address from her contract; were her black pencil skirt and soft pink blouse too business-like for a job that would entail playing with kids and cooking? Or maybe it was appropriate since today was the first day and her best chance to make a good impression on the boss? She had chosen ballet flats instead of pumps to make mobility as easy as possible. Swallowing away her indecision, she lifted her wand and flicked.

The familiar being-sucked-inside-out feeling was followed by the comforting one of her feet hitting a cobbled path, a path in front of a house much smaller than what she had expected. It was charming, two-stories and pure white, as if dirt and grime couldn't even gather on its fresh surface. The shutters and trim were charming blue, and in the yard, there was a beautiful tree, with a huge, creamy-colored trunk, heavy with maroon and orange leaves that looked as if they simply had to fall any second. Well, this house was not the house she had imagined the famed Draco Malfoy living in, any more than she had imagined him having children.

She walked up the path to the heavy wooden door – she suspected it was antique – and knocked the brass door knocker. With Doxies in her stomach, she tried to breathe, but the nerves were finally getting the best of her. Sweat broke out on her upper lip embarrassingly. Then the door budged inward slightly as if someone was struggling on the other side of it. Without thinking, she put her hands on it and pushed. It popped out of the door frame, and a little girl stood there, smiling shyly.

"Thank you, Miss Weasley," the girl said. Ginny felt something constrict in her chest, that strange anticipation that burned like kindling catching fire, and she smiled back at the child. This beautiful curly haired girl, dressed in satin and dress shoes, must be Draco Malfoy's child. Trying to swallow away the anticipation, the little inexplicable ache somewhere in her soul, she smiled.

"You're welcome, sweetie. You can call me Ginny. What can I call you?" She asked.

"Evelyn. I'm five." This reminded her of Cora. Her niece had possessed the same way of throwing her age into everything as if being four or five was a great achievement. Considering Cora had never made it to five, though, perhaps it was. Ginny's smile wavered on her lips at the thought.

"Well, Evelyn, it is so nice to meet you," Ginny held out her hand, and Evelyn shook it firmly, a handshake obviously taught by a father. Speaking of fathers, Ginny heard heavy tread from in the house and looked up to see the master of the house, celebrity chef extraordinaire, her new boss. And he was gorgeous. Ginny was not one to think that men were gorgeous – rugged or handsome or attractive maybe but never gorgeous – but this man could hardly be described as anything else. He was dressed simply, not extravagantly or flashily, but the clothes were ironed and tailored to perfection. Tall, lean, and broad through the shoulders, he was sturdy-looking, steady-looking. He did not look like a man who would let you down or a man that failed at anything. And then there was that face… the face with cheekbones that could have been carved by a Grecian sculptor, below twin twinkling sky blue eyes and above an aristocratic nose and a bemused mouth. His jaw was nothing to sneeze at either, strong and chiseled. There was no softness or weakness about him, yet he still looked safe and comfortable.

Could _this_ be the Draco Malfoy who had sneered and tormented her brother during his years at Hogwarts? Could this be the man who looked so cheesy in promotional photos?

"Hello, Miss Weasley," he held out a hand that she took cautiously, "It is a pleasure to have you join us at Everton." His voice was not as warm as his appearance would have suggested; instead, it was formal and authoritative. Well, she should have known. No matter how gorgeous he was, he was still the boss, and most bosses were not chummy like Seamus had always been.

"Everton is the name of our house and pond and yard and everything we own," Evelyn explained. "Daddy named it after me when he bought it when I was a baby."

Ginny smiled but felt acutely uncomfortable. Was she supposed to pretend she and Draco had never met, or was she supposed to go ahead and break that barrier and acknowledge that they had known each other in a distant, not particularly pleasant way?

"Yes, I did, dear. Now, will you give me a few minutes to talk to Miss Weasley before she goes to get settled?" Draco replied, not looking down at Evelyn. The little girl seemed unaffected by his formality, and Ginny wondered sympathetically if he was one of those terribly distant celebrity fathers. It would explain why he kept a nanny.

"Yes, Daddy," she skipped off. Draco motioned for Ginny to come inside, and she walked in onto the polished hardwood floors cautiously. He led her through a living room to a kitchen, looking almost apologetic. He frowned.

"My office is being renovated. Right now, there is no place to sit, so the kitchen will have to do," he informed her, taking a seat on a stool at the raised counter. She hardly heard him; her full attention was on the kitchen. The oak cabinets were polished to within an inch of their lives, and there were rows of them, some so high she would undoubtedly have to use the step stool to reach them. Big copper pots and pans hung above the kitchen island, with a flat stove surface and a swirled marble cutting board. A spice rack, laden with expensive spice jars (none of which were covered with Draco's face) rested by the refrigerator, a fruit hanger held apples, oranges and bananas next to the sink, and a bright red and copper coffee grinder rested on the breakfast nook counter where Draco had taken his seat. Across from the island and breakfast nook was a beautiful oak table with wrought iron chairs and a giant red-vased centerpiece in which a beautiful orchid was growing.

This was a dream kitchen.

"This kitchen is phenomenal," she breathed out the words like a reverent whisper, half-afraid the room would vanish if she spoke too loud. She wanted to reach out and touch each appliance, feel its cool, solid, promising weight in her hands. Like the big cast iron skillet hanging from its large hook; she could do anything with a good cast iron skillet. But as silence stretched out, she realized she should turn away from the kitchen to see why Draco wasn't speaking. His face surprised her. He was smiling.

"I designed it myself. It's as functional as humanly possible," he finally replied, gazing at the room as if through fresh eyes. A crease in his left cheek that was almost a dimple but not quite caught her attention and made her smile back.

"It's also beautiful. Is this where I'll be cooking?" With the formality broken and smiles on both faces, she felt comfortable joining him in sitting down at the nook. She cautiously kept one chair between them, though, because that seemed professional and gave that almost-dimple less chance of dazzling her.

"Yes. You read your contract, so you have a good idea of how the shopping will work. Create a list for the week on Monday, and the housekeeper will handle the purchasing. Budget is really…" He paused as if he felt uncomfortable saying the next words. "Really not an issue. So plan whatever meals you would like to prepare."

The thought of a budgetless cooking in a kitchen like this sounded like paradise after years of penny-pinching and careful scrimping in the kitchen of the O'Flaherty. She could never count high enough to list the number of times she had suddenly had to change menu plans because the amount of money in the restaurant account plummeted because of a leaky pipe in the bathroom needing to be fixed or something.

"Okay." She finally said, attempting not to look like a cook who had died and gone to heaven.

"Otherwise, I think everything was clear in the contract as far as the job description. Now I just want to talk about Evelyn," he swallowed. "She is very excited about you, incredibly excited, and she will want you to do everything in the world with her, and though that is you job… do not do too much too fast and burn yourself out. Because then that will just be someone disappearing on her again."

His jaw tightened, that tell-tale masculine muscle twitching there. Ginny wondered how many nannies had walked out on the Malfoys; perhaps Evelyn was a difficult child, likely spoiled out of her mind but with little parental affection. She knew the stereotypes of celebrity children, and none of them were positive.

Draco went on. "I really want someone to stay in this position for some time so that Evelyn does not feel like she is looking at a revolving door of people. She has it hard enough without having a mother."

"I understand, sir. I would not have taken the position if I planned to abandon it quickly," she reassured him, feeling an unexpected urge to reach out and touch his shoulder. Perhaps he had really loved Evelyn's mother, wherever she was now. "She's close to the same age as my niece, Cora, so she's got an advantage on making me want to stay right from the start."

Obviously that was the right thing to say because she saw some tension leave his shoulders, and he put his feet on the floor. "That is excellent news. Now, if you don't mind, I am going to borrow Evelyn for your first day because I promised her a Daddy-daughter day. Please feel free to use your time to get settled into the guest cottage and to explore the grounds. Get a feel for Everton, and I promise to let you have my little girl for a while this evening for you two to get better acquainted."

She felt odd still sitting now that he was standing, so she stood up too. "Alright, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for taking a few minutes to welcome me and showing me the lovely kitchen."

"You are very welcome, Miss Weasley," he replied as he started out of the kitchen, and she looked around the kitchen thoughtfully.

When she had decided to go after a fresh start, this had not been what she expected, but she was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

X

Evelyn squealed exactly like the little girl she was every time Draco made her put her own worm on the hook, so of course, being a father, he always made her do it herself. Right now, she had been picking up and dropping the same worm for the past two minutes, all punctuated with giggles and squeaks. The worm wouldn't have much wriggle left by the time she managed to get it on the hook, but it wouldn't matter in this well-stocked pond. She had already caught two sizable fish. He, however, was not doing so well. He was distracted, and unfortunately, the distraction was the new nanny.

When he had approached the door earlier (ten steps behind his eager Evelyn), he had been expecting to see the Weasley girl standing there, a familiar if not beloved sight. Instead, he had seen a woman without a trace of girl, a woman with soft curves, a pile of fiery auburn hair, and doe eyes that said "I'm lost, so I came here." She may have been dressed professionally, but those eyes made him want to reach out, pull her into his chest, and protect her the same way he did with Evelyn. He was so startled by his reaction to her that he could hear his voice stiffen when he tried to talk; until she had seen that damn kitchen and practically purred like a satisfied kitten, and the way she had breathed out in sudden pleasure at his kitchen design had then made him want to stroke her like the kitten she had reminded him of.

It was not a very dignified way for a confirmed bachelor father to think about the hired help.

"Daddy, you haven't even baited your hook. You are never going to catch a fish this way," his daughter lamented parentally. While he had been lost in his thoughts, she had baited her hook and dropped her line back in the water.

"I'm sorry, dear. I got distracted thinking about how I was going to cook these yummy fish you're catching," he said, grinning down at her and feeling no prick of conscience about the little white lie. What else could he have said, after all? Seemingly satisfied, the child wiggled her rod as if to coax the fish toward her, and he laughed. He was the luckiest man alive to call this little angel his own.

"Let's let Miss Weasley cook with us, Daddy. You can teach her anything she doesn't already know about cooking fish."

"Wouldn't you rather cook just us and let Miss Weasley get settled in to her cottage on her first night?"

"It is not a big cottage. She will be settled by the time we get back."

Draco tried very hard not to laugh at the worldly tone Evelyn used with him. There was no doubt he had spoiled the precocious child, and perhaps now would be a good time to try out the word no, since he was not sure he wanted to give up his peaceful kitchen time to be drawn into those dangerously innocent eyes of the new nanny.

"Please, Daddy?" The knowing child pulled out a plaintive whine, mixed with batted eyelashes and a big smile.

"Okay…" He conceded, chuckling at his own weakness. The next two hours were spent hauling in fish, charming them to keep them cool, and talking about anything Evelyn wanted. It mostly included fairy tale princesses, what makes rainbows, and everything he could have ever wanted to know about flowers. Since she had learned to read, she had worked her way through book after book in the library, and since she was in love with pretty photographs, books about spring flowers, mostly coffee table books he had bought just because they looked nice lying around, were her particular favorite right now.

By the time they were ready to walk back up to the house, he was grateful for magic, setting the gear and the fish on their correct trajectory to the storage shed and the kitchen. Holding Evelyn's hand, they walked towards the stone cottage on this side of the property rather near the pond. He glanced down now at the ratty white fishing shirt and thanked God silently that at least his jeans were clean. Whether he wanted to be clean to look like authority or to not disappoint Miss Weasley was still a matter of some mental debate, but he frowned. He obviously needed to start making the time to date if he was going to react so strongly to any old woman under the age of thirty. After all, Miss Weasley was no great beauty, and he lived in the celebrity world of glitz and glamour where there were a great many great beauties.

Once he was on the doorstep of the guest cottage, he admired it. When he had purchased the property, it had been run-down, but he had fixed it up and planted ivy growing up the grey stone walls. Now it was charming, picturesque even. He was proud to be able to offer a nanny her own cozy house, instead of just a room in "the big house." However, he had never, through any of the nannies, ever knocked on the door to this house. It seemed presumptuous to bother a nanny in her personal time. He knocked.

She opened the door, looking surprised. She had changed out of her formal clothes, wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and a lavender shirt with a v-neck just low enough to make him want to tilt his head forward and look down. _Get a hold of yourself, old boy,_ he thought. He put on what he hoped was a friendly but not too friendly smile, but he suspected he just looked embarrassed to be standing on her doorstep.

"Miss Weasley, Evelyn is very much hoping you will come help us cook dinner and join us for the meal. Apparently I'm just not enough company for her tonight," he greeted, one corner of his mouth flipping up with amusement. Evelyn piped up now.

"We're having fish I caught. Daddy was a terrible fisherman today."

"Guilty as charged," he said with a chuckle, reaching down to squeeze his daughter's shoulder. If a grown man had said something like that, it would have been hard to resist the urge to punch him, but he could take just about any jibe when spoken in such a sweet voice.

He looked back up to see that Ginny's face plainly showed her concern about eating with them; those damned doe eyes of hers said "But I'm just hired help," and he heard himself saying, "I hope you'll understand that you're going to be very important to Evelyn and will always be welcome to join us for dinner."

He could hardly believe he had just said that. He had never eaten a meal with one of Evelyn's nannies in his life. Good Lord, he needed to keep thirty feet between this woman and himself at all times.

"Well, in that case, I would be happy to join you," she replied, but he noticed she took care to speak to Evelyn, holding out her hand. "Lead the way."

Evelyn folded her hand into Ginny's and smiled up at her father, who could only shake his hand as the females led the way to his own home.

This new nanny was going to throw a wrench in his peaceful life. He could just tell. At least he was going to be in his element: the kitchen. He just hoped it wasn't her element, too, even if she was hired to be a cook as well as a nanny.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Obviously I love your feedback. It tells me what you like, what you don't like, where you'd like to see the story go, etc. I really do consider your reviews, so please take the time to write them. I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. :)


	3. Chapter 3

As she started dicing onions and brightly colored orange, yellow, and red bell peppers, she worried she would cut a finger off her trembling hands. She had been cooking happily for years, but there was something nerve-wracking about doing so in front of Draco's watchful eyes and Evelyn's eager ones. To be honest, she could tell that Draco wasn't really judging her. In fact, he seemed to be doing a million things at once, more at home in his kitchen than any man she had ever seen. He was pouring a thin layer of olive oil into a skillet one second, cleaning the fish deftly the next second, and starting to thinly slice potatoes yet another second. He was moving so quickly it was enough to make her head spin, so she turned back to concentrating on her nervous hands' work.

"Dinner is not going to be gourmet, Miss Weasley," Draco suddenly said, voice drifting towards her from behind in an oddly familiar way, "but I hope it will be good."

"It will certainly be fresh," she replied. The memory of the flopping fish from only an hour ago was definitely at odds with what she would have expected in a home that employed a nanny. Evelyn, who was sitting on a stool at the nook, piped in now.

"Daddy always says fresh fish are the best fish!"

Ginny laughed because it was hard to imagine her new boss coining such a corny catch phrase, but the sound had a pinched quality that made her nerves far too apparent in the bustling kitchen. She took her first two handfuls of onions and peppers and turned to drop them in the skillet. As the vegetables fell into the hot olive oil, they released a sharp, sweet scent that made her proud to know her way around a kitchen. Creating smells like that and helping mold them into praiseworthy tastes was what had made her job as a cook worthwhile.

Draco reached around her gingerly to drop the potatoes into the pan. A rush of steam flew up, accompanied by the hiss of the cold potatoes touching the hot pan. The combination of the smells in the kitchen was getting irresistible. She just wanted to grab a plate and start eating, even though the food wasn't ready and the people around her were strangers.

Once the fish were in the oven and the potatoes and seasonings were in the skillet, there was nothing more to be done. Or so Ginny thought, until Draco motioned for her to sit down at the bar.

"Take a seat with Evelyn if you don't mind, Miss Weasley. When I am back to work on Monday, I will be handing over total control of this kitchen to you. I'd like to use it a little by myself tonight."

It was a snub, she supposed, but she took a seat anyway. Evelyn started telling her a story about the last time they went fishing – "Daddy pretended he was going to eat a worm!" – but Ginny could barely focus because she was so impressed by Draco's current cooking endeavor. He was boiling milk and pouring something into it, and she stared in surprise. What could he be making?

"Is that dessert, Dad?" Evelyn switched adults to talk to, obviously able to tell that she did not have Miss Weasley's full attention and astutely determining what did.

"Yes, it is, angel," he replied, grinning. "Yogurt. What fruit do you want in it?"

Before Evelyn could answer, the nanny could not resist speaking up. "Yogurt with real fruit counts as dessert in this house?" Ginny joked, expecting a grin from Evelyn. Instead, she earned a stern, surprised look from Draco as he stirred his mixture. The look startled her into silence and though she hated to admit it, made her heart pause. Not even five hours into the job, and she had already made a mistake.

"We take healthy eating very seriously in this house. _Evelyn_ and I do not eat junk food and avoid trans fats and other health pitfalls," he said firmly. The statement sounded like something out of an overbearing parenting book, and Ginny tried not to snort derisively. She had never been a parent, so she had no right to judge, but she had enjoyed some wonderful evenings making buttery, gooey grilled cheese sandwiches with Cora, followed by baking and enjoying some fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. Somehow she doubted Evelyn could ever enjoy pouring cultures into boiling milk to make yogurt as much as Cora had enjoyed loading up the dough with chocolate chips. Making shapes out of the cookies had been one of the best parts.

"I understand," she replied, not sounding very convincing. Silence fell for a moment before Evelyn jumped up from her stool.

"How about I show you my room while Daddy finishes dinner?" The little girl announced. Her obvious pride in her idea made Ginny laugh.

"Is that okay by you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Absolutely."

Ginny let Evelyn take her hand gently and start leading her towards the living room, straight through to the stairs. It was a curving staircase, an impractical piece of architecture but a beautiful one, and Ginny could not help but admire how lushly the house was decorated, simple and classical. No man could have picked it all out himself, surely, so she knew Draco must have had help. Perhaps his… wife… or whatever Evelyn's mother had been to him had been the one to design the house.

"Do you have your own room?" Ginny asked, feeling that she must make conversation but immediately regretting the foolish question. Of course the child had her own room; it was just her and her father living here.

"Yes, I do, but you can come stay in it any time you would like. We could have fun sleepovers," Evelyn replied solemnly. They stepped into a room that could not help but make Ginny smile. It was huge and had so many toys and books t hat any attempts to keep it clean had to just be efforts at containment. One bookshelf of children's books was so full that an equal number of book seemed to be stacked on top of it. Ginny chuckled. It was the room of a spoiled child, but as she looked down at the sweet smile on the girl's face, she grinned.

"Your room is wonderful. You must love to read."

"Oh yes! Daddy taught me how to read. He says I am as smart as they come!"

"Show me your favorite book?"

Evelyn immediately walked over to the bedside table and picked up a thin picture book with a princess – complete with tiara and poofy pink dress – standing on a pumpkin. "This is _The Pumpkin Princess_. The illustrations move so perfectly. You'll love it. Can I read it to you?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

So the pair sat down on the bed's soft, thick comforter and started to enjoy a heartwarming fairy tale. The little ache in Ginny's heart swelled.

X

He finished the yogurt and looked at it with the pride that only a very secure man can feel in yogurt. It would be tangy and sweet, and the fresh strawberries and mangos he had mixed in would make it both healthy and delicious. It was an excellent dessert and very healthy. He thought of Miss Weasley's surprise at their healthy eating and frowned. If she had been expecting cakes and cookies, she was very wrong. He was not having his little girl have any health problems because of being overindulged on junk food.

Pulling the potatoes and vegetables from the skillet, he drained any olive oil from the pan and put it in the sink. The smell of the fresh fish overwhelmed the kitchen. He had made an excellent dinner, and as he had hoped, the new nanny had offered little help. The kitchen remained his domain, both in his home and out of it, and no oddly charming new hired hand was going to change that. By the time he had everything on serving dishes, he could hear giggling from upstairs, twin giggling that obviously did not just come from his daughter. The sound was infectious, and he found himself smiling too. Instead of shouting up to them that dinner was ready, he started up the stairs and rounded the corner to Evelyn's room. He stopped in the doorway to see what they were doing.

The sight made the air stall in his lungs.

Evelyn was standing on her bed with a tiara on her head, waving a toy wand and singing out nonsense as if it were a spell. On the floor, Miss Weasley was kneeling as if she had been crying until Evelyn tapped her shoulder with the wand. Then the nanny rose to her feet, wrapping herself in the comforter (which had apparently been discarded on the floor somewhere along the way). She made the comforter look like an awkward strapless ball gown and exclaimed, "Thank you, thank you, headmistress" to a beaming Evelyn. Then they both exploded into giggles together, Evelyn reaching out to put a hand on Miss Weasley's shoulders to balance herself.

It looked so much like what he had occasionally dared to let himself imagine: a life where Evelyn had a mother.

He coughed uncomfortably, and the older of the two girls turned a shade of red that could only be described as Weasley.

"Hi…" Miss Weasley said slowly, awkwardly, "We were just… playing Pumpkin Princess…" He watched her lower lip actually tremble with her embarrassment and little beads of sweat appear on her upper lip. She was certainly not a well-groomed upper-echelon princess, but again, he felt a little stirring in his chest. He frowned. What was wrong with him?

"Miss Weasley is the BEST nanny I have ever had!" Evelyn gushed openly, running over to hug his leg. "You are so smart to hire her. Is dinner ready?"

He could not project his discomfort (or Miss Weasley's) onto his innocent daughter, so he smiled and nodded. "It is. Wash your hands and come on down."

Evelyn skipped off to the restroom, and he tried to make a smile that looked natural, instead of stiff, appear on his mouth as he looked at Miss Weasley, who was unwrapping herself from the comforter and straightening her hair. Apparently the toy wand had been placed on her head enough times to muss the hair. He realized he was going to have to speak first as the silence extended awkwardly.

"It was nice to see you playing with Evelyn. She has not had many fun nannies before," he observed.

"I'll try my best to keep her happy," Ginny replied, now smiling sincerely. "How did dinner turn out?"

"It ought to taste just fine," he echoed with modesty that was entirely false. He knew it was going to be spectacular, fresh and well-prepared, and he could not wait to see the look on the nanny's face when she tried the yogurt. It was going to knock her socks off, and she would quickly realize she had never had a cookie that could compare, at least taste-wise. They started down the staircase, and he paused at the top before realizing that, again, he would have to lead. He was the head of the house and her boss. Of course she was not going to walk down the stairs first. It was not like him to forget the protocol of how to interact with hired help. He managed a large staff beneath him at work and at home and had for most of his life. So why was he so easily forgetting himself around this woman?

"More than fine, I'm sure," she replied from behind him as he walked. He heard his daughter's racing feet as she roared down the steps with super-human speed, a speed only achieved by a child hellbent on being the first one to the dinner table. She achieved her goal. By the time he rounded the corner into the kitchen, Evelyn was seated at the head of the table, grinning wildly.

"Miss Weasley on this side, Daddy on this side," she motioned to the chairs on either side of her like a doting princess. Instead of contradicting, he simply smiled and took his seat. He knew she was spoiled and should show some authority, especially right this second, but he could not make himself do that. Miss Weasley seemed fine with it, though he did think he saw a knowing twitch of her mouth, accompanied by a twinkle in her eyes. He managed not to chuckle.

The plates were resting on charmed hot place settings (which he hoped she appreciated because they were a piece of work to get working appropriately); from the fresh fish to the steaming vegetables and spicy potatoes, it was a meal to be proud of. Evelyn, accustomed to this sort of cuisine, did not look one bit proud or impressed. She just started digging in. Before he started, he glanced up at Miss Weasley.

Her head was bent down as if in prayer, eyes closed and lips moving wordlessly. He felt that same strange stirring in his chest again as he wondered what suddenly religious fervor had caught his nanny.

X

_God forgive me for wanting to love this little girl_. That was what Ginny had whispered over her plate as she had watched infectiously joyous Evelyn preside over dinner. Was it traitorous to want to love Evelyn, to want to be able to give the kind of time and devotion to her new job that she should have given to Cora? She supposed it was, but anything to ease the guilt she lived with and keep her from succumbing to insanity like her brother had was worthwhile. Dinner had been unbelievably delicious, but the setting had been terse. Evelyn had been the only point of connection between the two adults, who largely avoided directly addressing each other. She was still embarrassed to tears that Draco had seen her frolicking like a little girl, and for whatever reason, he seemed supremely disinterested in conversing with her.

Or rather, he had seemed supremely disinterested until after dinner when Evelyn had skipped upstairs to brush her teeth for bed and she herself had decided to retire back to her cottage. Then he had stopped her in the kitchen, without touching her but his voice seeming to intimate the same thing as a hand on the shoulder. She had noticed one hand's fingers furling and unfurling at his side as if keeping themselves from reaching out to physically catch her attention. "Good night, Miss Weasley. We're very glad to have you here at Everton," he had said, looking at her with a flicker almost like protectiveness.

She had left the main house very confused, and she was no less confused now as she lay in her new bed. The comforter was plush and warm, the sheets cool and soft, and the pillows neither too firm nor too soft, but she could not sleep. Though she hated to admit it, even to herself, she knew that her new job (namely her new boss) was to blame. He was an enigma, friendly one second and cold the next, but so devoted to his daughter that the love practically seared the air around him. It reminded her of Ron, ironically, or at least Ron before his world fell apart. That was another subject to easily keep her up at night. The painful, crumbling disintegration of her brother's marriage was hard to think about yet she could not help doing so.

"That's it." She finally stood up. Her friend count was pretty low at this point in her life, but she had one friend whose whereabouts were never a mystery. She switched out of her pajamas back to her jeans and blouse and Apparated to The O'Flaherty. It was no surprise to see the light on in the back; Seamus would be in the kitchen, of course, doing paperwork and trying to figure out how to pay his bills. She knocked on the back door. After a minute's pause and some banging (he seemed to have tripped over something), he opened the door. He had flour in his hair and a smile on his mouth.

"Look what the cat dragged in! Couldn't even make it a week without seeing me!" He pulled her in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She laughed.

"You've been drinking," she observed knowingly.

"Drinking away me sorrows at having lost me best cook," he replied, filling his voice with an affected Irish brogue and brandishing his arms dramatically. He punctuated the already melodramatic gesture with a waggle of his thick eyebrows.

"You must like me more than ever, if I've given you a valid excuse for drinking," she echoed. He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her into the kitchen, and they started talking about anything and nothing, easy banter while seated on overturned food supply crates. It was relaxing, easy, and Ginny found her arm reaching for Seamus' bottle of whiskey and pouring herself a generous glass. It bit and burned something nasty on her first sip, but then it tasted good, numbing. Her sips became more generous, and the burn became a slow, pleasant flame filling her from belly to throat.

"You're getting' a bit drunk, Gin," Seamus observed suddenly, interrupting her story about mixing too much flour with her butter when making a roux last week. She frowned for a moment, confused by the sudden interruption and trying to get her mental bearings. "It's not like you. What's going on?"

She thought for a long hard moment, pursing her lips in thought for just a few seconds too long to be able to prove her sobriety. The alcohol had pleasantly wrapped itself around the painful thoughts that had been haunting her earlier, and she hesitated to pull any of the wrapping off to share them with Seamus. But it was Seamus, her dear friend and practically partner of so many years. In spite of the bitterness she felt towards him for keeping her here so many hours, she also cared about him and knew he cared about her in return. The empty whiskey bottle sat between them, seeming to invite her to share her thoughts.

"Ron… I think he's completely lost it…" She finally said, the thought coming out of its wrapping with a pinch of sharp pain.

"Things are no better with him and 'mione?"

It was a startling realization for her that she was now drunker than Seamus. His eyes were focused, bright, his speech just slightly burred with his thickened accent, and his words perfectly normal. She heard her own speech moving slowly, slurring sounds against her teeth and dropping them unusually on her clumsy tongue. She wished there was more whiskey, enough to numb the sudden embarrassment she felt at getting drunk.

"No better," she murmured sadly. "And… my new job… there's a little girl I want to love but betraying Cora… family is hard."

Seamus looked uncomfortable now, not really understanding what she was saying, and she drew up enough reserve of sobriety to let him off the hook. "Thanksyou for listenenin," she blurred her words together and leaned over to put her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Things'll get better, Gin. They just have to."

X

It was late, very late, and he did not understand why he was awake. Normally, he was able to sleep like a rock, but tonight, he had flitted in twice to check on Evelyn and finally given up on resting in bed and moved to the kitchen. With a chuckle at himself for being so predictable, he had gone downstairs into his very own man cave – his kitchen. Homemade pesto was a staple item in his kitchen, and he was out right now, so what better time than three a.m. to pull out the mortar and pestle? Once he had put out his ingredients, taking care not to forget some lime to add his famous citrus kick, he put on his shoes and headed out to the herb garden to pull his basil fresh. His herb garden was not his creation but rather the beloved brain-child of his housekeeper. She had started it, charmed it, and cultivated it for several years now, and for that alone, he knew he would never fire her.

The air was chilly as he walked, and he wished he had pulled on a sweater instead of simply venturing out in his thin, long-sleeved cotton shirt. A big harvest moon hung in the sky overhead, casting an orange glow over Everton, the land that he loved, and the night was peaceful, with just the low murmur of the breeze to break the silence. He noticed something up ahead, a strange shape on the ground, a lump like a rock where he knew for a fact there was no rock. Changing his trajectory slightly to approach, he quickly realized what the lump was: Miss Weasley. She was seated on the ground with her knees tucked up against her chest; as he got closer, he could see a frown on her lips, brow furrowed into tight, worrisome creases. She looked much older all of a sudden.

"Miss Weasley, what in heaven's name are you doing out here?" He asked, and her head popped up to look at him in surprise. Her eyes were glossy, a little unfocused, and when he was near enough, he was able to smell liquor. A flash of anger at the impropriety of drinking her very first night on the job rose up, but he pushed it down for now. There was no reason to berate a drunk woman; he would wait until she was sober.

"I… needed… to think," she spoke slowly when she replied, pushing her heels down into the ground and trying to ease to her feet. Unconsciously, Draco reached out a hand to grab her elbow and steady her.

"About what?"

"Life," she waved her arms unnecessarily, "My family. Death. Everything." The waving of her arms threw her off balance, and he reached out for her again, touching her elbow just long enough to put her back on balance. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he felt terribly concerned. Not about her, she was an adult who could handle her own problems, no matter what those strange impulses of his tried to tell him. His concern was about her appropriateness for a position of this magnitude; she was going to be responsible for his little girl when he was gone, sometimes for a week at a time, and she barely seemed capable of being responsible for herself if this stumbling drunken night was any indicator.

"What triggered this thinking?" He made himself say something that sounded remotely sympathetic, but even to his own ears, his voice sounded cold and angry. Through his gritted teeth, the word 'thinking' could have just as easily been drinking. Miss Weasley looked up at him, swaying on her feet, and locked her dizzy eyes on his. He drew in a breath, suddenly struck by how fragile and beautiful she looked.

"She's dead," she whispered up to him, closing her eyes as if her words were too awful to face. Then she wobbled and sagged forward against him. He recognized the sudden drop as passing out and caught her, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

* * *

**AN**: Obviously I want to hear your feedback; this chapter did not receive appropriate editing attention. I'm ready to just serve it up to the fanfiction readers, and I'll go back and edit it more thoroughly later. Let me know your opinions.


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